


Souffle Today

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, Dor-lómin, Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 14:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: One of Fingolfin's subjects is terrible at following directions.





	Souffle Today

“...but I am not the only one controlling land in this region,” finished Fingolfin as he and his entourage of advisers, generals, and courtiers followed him down a grand hallway that fed off through doorways in many different directions through the palace. 

 

“This may be, but it is you who are High King,” one of the senior advisers reminded.  “Always, if they are leaders of their people and feel they are worthy, they will come to you first.”

 

“Why does no one go to Thingol on these… matters…”  Fingolfin stopped, and his convoy immediately halted behind him.  “...of importance.  Excuse me.  Dismissed,” he said suddenly as he turned on his heel and walked briskly back to one of the doorways they had passed.

 

Sitting perfectly poised in a burgundy leather chair, Fingon was reading from a small, blue book.  “The hell are you doing here?” demanded his father.

 

The room was otherwise empty, a small dining room used for breakfasts and tea.  Fingon did not bother to look up as he said, “Waiting for breakfast.”

 

“You should not be here,” scolded Fingolfin as a maid, on cue, entered with a cheerful smile and a small tray containing a bowl of fresh cut fruit and a souffle topping with  copious amount of melted cheese.  “What is this?” he added as the tray was placed on a small table beside Fingon’s chair.

 

“Breakfast,” Fingon replied, still not looking at his father.  Instead, he addressed the maid.  “Thank you; this looks very appetizing.”  The maid curtseyed and promptly left the room.  “Sorry; did you want one?  Spinach, artichoke, and red pepper,” said Fingon as he deposited his book on the table and cut into the perfectly round delicacy.  He lifted a mouthful on his fork, keeping his other hand beneath the tines in case any should escape.  After a satisfied hum upon tasting, Fingon speared a piece of melon whilst he chewed.  

 

“No. I had breakfast already, because I live here.  You left three days ago,” Fingolfin announced loudly.

 

Fingon continued to eat, giving his father only a cursory glance.  “Your words were, you should return to Dor-lómin.”

 

“I meant, go there.  We will lose that stronghold if no one is guarding it,” warned Fingolfin.

 

“I have people guarding it,” countered Fingon.  “That place is creepy as fuck.  Unless I have to be there, I am not going there.  Besides, my cook does not make souffles like this,” he added as he scooped up another mouthful.  “I have no idea how she keeps that cheese melty the whole time.  Even as this cools, the cheese is still divine,” he finished as his father sighed and dropped down in the chair on the other side of the table.

 

“Fingon, listen to me.  Your cousins keep building their realms.  Soon, they will surpass Hithlum in size and power.  I have no idea where the fuck your brother and sister are - Gildor Inglorion tells me they have a secret city somewhere, but I have no idea if they do or if it is some joke and they are just with Finrod, which I highly suspect.”

 

“I thought you sent Erestor to go look for them.”  Fingon had his book in one hand again as he blindly navigated his fork from the fruit to his mouth.

 

“In six years, he should have found something.  I resign myself to the fact that Erestor is most likely dead.” 

 

This caught Fingon’s attention and he frowned.  “You think he is dead?”

 

“In six years, he either would have found them and sent word back, or… or worse, but you are not about to go off to Angband to see if he was captured,” Fingolfin stated.  “I expressly forbid it.”

 

“Noted.  I had no intention of leaving this seat until I finish this chapter, so at least for the morning my mind is otherwise occupied.”  Fingon set down his fork to turn a page.  “I doubt it, though.”

 

Fingolfin narrowed his eyes.  “What do you doubt?”

 

“I doubt he is dead.  Erestor, that is.  He seems the sort who would not try to get himself killed on purpose.”

 

“No one tries to get killed on purpose,” grumbled Fingolfin.  

 

“Are you certain you do not want a souffle?  You sound a bit grumpy this morning - what did you have for breakfast?” asked Fingon.

 

“I ate a sufficient meal,” Fingolfin countered.  “I am grumpy because my eldest son, heir to the throne, role model to many, is sitting here, hiding here, shirking his duties, having breakfast, when he should be on his way if not arrived, at his own castle.”  He shook his head.  “What am I to do with you?”

 

“Provide me with the love and support of an understanding and benevolent parent?”  Fingon closed the book and placed it on the table again.  “I think you should find someone who wants Dor-lómin.  Perhaps Gildor would be suitable as a steward of the land; he is old enough, I think, for it.  If we had a way to get word to Turgon, you could ask Idril, but I fear that might not bode well with Aredhel.  I would not give the land to Aredhel; she is flightier than I am.”

 

“And what about you?  What do I do with you?” questioned Fingolfin.

 

“I have not the desire for power, nor for glory,” responded Fingon.  “Dor-lómin will stand without me there, but if you prefer a figurehead to oversee that, take it from me and appoint someone else.  Quite simply, I do not want to rule over land.  I think we should all be free to live in whatever land we want, to self-govern with commonsense, and to treat one another with respect.  Then again, I did kill four innocent people on a beach once when all they were doing was defending their homes.  So why would anyone listen to me?”  Fingon finished his breakfast and sat back in the chair.  “Do you want me to go back to Dor-lómin?”

 

“Yes,” replied Fingolfin sternly.  Fingon slid down in his chair and rolled his eyes.  “I will take your words to heart, though.  What you said about finding someone else to rule instead of you,” clarified Fingolfin.  “I think, as you mature,” (and here, Fingon rolled his eyes again), “you will find that we need kings and magistrates and others to lead and judge.  Even in Valinor, there were rules and consequences.”

 

“I am more than aware of the consequences of Valinor,” answered Fingon.  “I had hoped this place would be different.”

 

“We always think the grass is greener, do we not?”  Fingolfin stood up and picked up the tray of empty dishes.  “I want you out of here by tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“You are really going to make me leave again?” Fingon’s words were rather even, but his eyes were pouting.

 

“I would make you leave today, but I thought you might want to stay long enough to have breakfast here again tomorrow,” replied Fingolfin as he left the room.


End file.
